Cordiale
by lord-is-it-mine
Summary: It doesn't feel like 109 years. Written for the 109th anniversary of the Entente Cordiale (FrUK day 2013). pssst it's sex.


One-hundred-and-nine years. More than a century. More than a human lifetime. Though to people like us, Arthur thinks, one-hundred-and-nine isn't long at all. And he knows that he can live one-hundred-and-nine a thousand times over, and he still won't be able to give up Francis. True, everyone knows that there are times they would likely kill each other if given the chance; but on days like these, Arthur finds it hard to recall the times he's felt that way.

Truthfully, it's been so much longer than one-hundred-and-nine years. It's been ten times that if not more. That's how long they've been together. Even back when they were children, England knew that he was in love with France. Even in the darkest times, even when they became bitter enemies, the thing that hurt the most was that they were still in love, through all of it. The eighth of April has become the day they celebrate that they're still together, after a thousand years, a thousand wars, a thousand storms.

Francis worships Arthur's body, every inch of skin that is his, just as every inch of his own skin belongs to Arthur. That's really what it's about, thinks Arthur. Belonging. It's also the only coherent thought he can get through his head as France's lips ghost over his chest, his stomach, pressing to the crook of his hip with soothing kisses, fingers teasing the more sensitive parts of him. Arthur grins slightly, letting an utterly contented moan leave his mouth, which is quickly covered by Francis' in a searing kiss, one that is full of all the centuries of passion and affection they've shared.

There are different kinds of passion, Arthur muses silently. It's a very common theme in their relationship. There are times when it's painful, rough and angry sex that drains them both of energy and rage until they can no longer stand. Sometimes it's drunken love-making, sloppy and desperate like when they were younger, when all they wanted was to just melt into each other's skin. And other times it's simply the looks they give, the intensely infinite stares that others will tell them heats up the whole room.

Tonight though, it's tender. Everything is slower, deeper, softer, yet there's still that flame, the thirst that not a thousand (and certainly not one-hundred-and-nine) years has been able to quench. That flame eats at Arthur's edges, burns in his skin and twists his stomach into knots. Lying underneath Francis, having this man looking at no one but him, touching and loving no one but him, Arthur wonders what he could have done to deserve such a miraculous gift. Of course he feels lucky. But more than that, he feels blessed. Sometimes he hopes that he can be even a little bit as good to Francis as Francis is to him. What he doesn't know is that Francis hopes the same, that he can give back just a fraction of the happiness that Arthur has brought him. And tonight, they're marveling at their good fortunes, lost in their love, in their passion, in each other.

Francis sucks gently on Arthur's bottom lip; seamlessly trailing his tongue to that one place on Arthur's throat that he knows would make him weak at the knees, had he been standing up. Arthur of course moans, sending shivers down Francis' spine. The Frenchman just tries to focus on leaving a mark, something he always does despite his lover's occasional protests. Most times, Arthur will wear anything to cover up those marks (not from shame but from his own insecurities), but somehow France knows that once a year, England will bear them almost proudly, because no matter what anyone says, he is loved, he is wanted, and he is everything to France. Arthur knows this, and sometimes he finds it hard to believe, that he could be so important. But he also knows that Francis will go to any lengths to prove it to him. And he does.

Arthur loves Francis' hands. God, the things those hands can do. They've hurt him and healed him and built him up and torn him down. They're the hands that have made him who he is, and they are the hands that love him endlessly. They brush across Arthur's body, moving across and around and inside him- sometimes roughly, but right now they are nothing but gentle. Combined with that mouth doing sinfully sweet things to the parts his hands don't touch, Arthur could nearly explode. But these hands, though he loves them- in this moment, they are not enough. Their eyes meet for an instant- bright blue and deep green, and they both know what the other wants- it's the same thing- they want each other, irreversibly, incomprehensibly and irrevocably close. It's one of those looks that heats up a room and puts every other love to shame. That's the thing about their love, Arthur thinks. It's undeniable. He pulls desperately at Francis' hair, freeing it from its ties and letting it spill across his lover's face. Arthur will never say (though Francis knows very well) that he adores those golden waves- how they don't just fall, they cascade to his shoulders. And even when it's pulled back, a few locks still fall across his ageless face. Arthur is addicted to running his fingers through that hair, and Francis is addicted to the feeling of Arthur's fingers tangled in it.

Their lips meet once more, the heated kiss stifling Arthur's groans as Francis pushes inside him. They both hold still, barely breathing, finally connected in the most intimate way. At times like this, Arthur feels more than just Francis' touch on his sweat-slicked skin; he feels complete. There's pain, and Arthur knows there's always going to be pain, and not just physical. In the thousand years they've been together, there have been times when the pain was overwhelming. But that's passion, Arthur thinks, though it's not really a thought and more of a feeling as they begin to move, in sync, perfectly and wholly focused on loving one another. Even though they've been here countless times, Arthur feels like each night is new, like he's never been held like this before. And Francis is caught up in the sheer surrealism of the moment- tonight, they are together, and nothing else matters.

Right now, there are no words; no words are needed. There is only the sound of unadulterated pleasure hanging in the heavy air- moans and grunts and skin against skin- gasping breaths and a creaking bed. They both hiss; Francis as Arthur's fingers dig into his shoulders; Arthur as he's fucked through the mattress. But it's not really 'fucking' is it? Arthur thinks as the knot in his stomach tightens. No, because that makes it sound cheap and meaningless- when in reality, right now means more than anything. No- this is the definition of making love. And amazing love at that.

Soon enough they fall headlong over the edge, nearly screaming each other's names before falling together in a panting, exhausted, satisfied tangle of bodies. Before Arthur can even catch his breath, it's stolen from him again by a kiss, one that is somehow not sensual, but still extremely powerful in its intensity. And then those familiar arms are around him once more, cradling him against that familiar chest, and a familiar mouth is leaving butterfly kisses over that mark on his neck, that mark that negates every bad thought he's ever thought of himself. He is loved, he is wanted, and he is everything to Francis.

"J'taime." Francis coos in Arthur's ear, his voice a sigh and a whisper and a song. "Tu es mon bonheur."

"I know." Arthur replies. "I love you too."

"I know." Francis laughs; his real laugh, the secret contentment that only he and Arthur share.

Arthur is lulled to sleep by the sound of his lover's breathing, the warmth of his skin and the knowledge that his love will always be returned. His last thought barely makes it from his lips as he drifts off into a dream.

"Happy anniversary."


End file.
